My sister bought an amazing house in the heart of a hopping city and is in process of renovating it. As I wondered through the big rooms with large windows looking out on tall trees, I focused on the layers of pealing wallpaper and long cracking ceiling. She was full of joy and possibility, as if this were a place she could really settle with her new baby. I was stuck in the stress of the work, like I had to complete a 20 page paper by tomorrow morning or clean a storage locker in order to move. You know it will all be great, but the first box or scrub or word is the hardest.
With kids, I feel that my belief in accomplishing the impossible in a night has diminished. I have no desire to live through an allnighter, run five errands on Christmas eve or host a neighborhood party. I struggle to make a meal, manage groceries to include protein or wipe down the counter. Tonight I am going to the Townie Party in Ann Arbor to avoid having to think about cooking.
I wonder about how my sister can give her energy to this house, wonder how my mother managed food for ten every day, wonder how anyone managed with more than two kids. So many enjoy the process of eating and prepare ingredients beautifully as if every day is bountiful and special. I want the life where I too am immune from the exhaustion of beginning and the potential to fail, so I can celebrate the tastes and textures and magic of survival.
No comments:
Post a Comment